


a modern feast (from one-hundred-and-two feet)

by Spacedog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Hook-Up, M/M, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacedog/pseuds/Spacedog
Summary: steven grant rogers is a good neighbor. he vacuums at times that aren’t ten-thirty at night. all his parties end at nine on the dot. and when he brings someone home, he’s cool about it. which makes it even more a shame that 106, the guy living across the hall from him, with the big, blue eyes and the adorable chin dimple and the ass steve can bounce quarters off of, is practically a thoughtful, neighborly, ghost.luckily, when steve needs something from the local bodega, he strikes an agreement that 106 is more than willing to oblige.(or: alternate universe, neighbors to hookups to lovers.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 28
Kudos: 447





	a modern feast (from one-hundred-and-two feet)

Steven Grant Rogers is a good neighbor.

He vacuums at times that aren’t ten-thirty at night. All his parties end at nine on the dot. And when he brings someone home, he’s cool about it. Steve even says hello to his neighbors when he sees them in the hall. He has a standing dinner date with the fun twins from Sokovia, their cool dad, and their kid sister. Sometimes, the aunties of the building even invite him to their mahjong tournaments. Steve Rogers isn’t just a good neighbor, he’s a _great_ neighbor.

Which is why it’s all the more frustrating that he can’t get a read on the big, handsome guy living in the apartment across from his. 

**\---**

It’s not that 106 is a bad person. It’s not even that the guy—with his big, blue eyes and soft-looking brown hair and an ass that Steve could bounce quarters off of—is a bad neighbor.

It’s that, as far as Steve knows, the guy is a complete hermit. He’s practically a ghost.

In the two years that 106 has lived across the hall from Steve, they’ve run into each other less than ten times, _maybe._ They’ve shared an elevator three times, and have had, if Steve is being generous, maybe eight actual conversations.

And yet, Steve is _obsessed_ with the guy. For good reason, too. In addition to having a face designed by Leyendecker and a body designed by Tom of Finland, 106 is a _genuinely good person._ It’s obvious, even from the few interactions that they’ve had. 106 is a little quiet, maybe even shy, but he’s kind. Thoughtful, even, given that he asks about Steve’s job—and _genuinely listens_ —whenever they run into each other. They might not have spoken much, but Steve knows that 106 is a _good man._ Of _course,_ he’s obsessed. 

Well. Maybe obsessed is a strong word. But in his list of all the people in New York City that Steve would like to spend the evening under, 106 easily makes top three.

Luckily, Steve manages to get much, much closer to 106— _real_ close to 106—one late autumn evening.

**\---**

As far as late November in Brooklyn goes, Steve’s evening is fairly ordinary. It’s cold. The sun sets far too early. Once safe inside the warmth of their homes, no one wants to go out. Especially not Steve.

His fridge is mostly empty, save for some old soda from a month ago, a small mountain of Chinese take-out condiment packets, and the remaining half of a frozen family-sized macaroni and cheese tray. Grocery shopping would happen some other day. Dinner—as bland as a grocery store brand frozen pasta dish happened to be—was already settled.

Settled, except for the fact that Steve is _not_ drinking day-glo orange soda with his straight-out-of-the-box mac and cheese. His body might have been much, much heartier than it was when he was growing up, firmly within _twunk_ territory, even, but Steve’s sure it wouldn’t forgive him for _that_ combination.

“Goddammit,” Steve grumbles, halfway through a mouthful of cheese and noodles. “God _dammit._ ”

In a huff, Steve sets down his flimsy aluminum tray down, takes a second glance at his fridge, and notices, shoved in the back, right behind seemingly-untouched cans of generic orange drink, the styrofoam cup of horchata he bought at the bodega earlier that week.

A cup of horchata that is now suspiciously empty.

Quickly, Steve takes his phone out, tapping out a text so quickly that it’s practically sent before his fridge closes. 

> ME [6:44 PM]: Hey. Did you drink all my horchata, Romanov?

Steve doesn’t need a response, not when he _knows_ that only one person had access, means, and motive to steal his horchata. But he wants confirmation, regardless. The minutes it takes, then, for a response to come back, practically feel like days passing between them. 

> NAT [6:47 PM]: You caught me)))

Steve groans. Of course. He isn’t surprised. Just disappointed. And a little bit pissed off, but that’s less because of confirmation of the truth, and more because he’s _hangry._

> ME [6:49 PM]: I can’t believe you, Romanov. I absolutely can’t believe you.
> 
> NAT [6:50 PM]: Sorryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
> 
> ME [6:51 PM]: At least replace it! Look, I wanted to have horchata with my dinner. You drank all my horchata. You can make this right. Get me some horchata at the bodega. I’ll even let you have a sip. 
> 
> NAT [6:55 PM]: Mmmmmm can’t, sorry
> 
> NAT [6:56 PM]: Busy.
> 
> NAT [6:57 PM]: Tomorrow, though.
> 
> ME: [6:57 PM]: I need horchata NOW, Nat.

She sends him a line of eye-roll emojis. It makes Steve perhaps a little _too_ angry. It’s just horchata, yes. But it’s _his_ horchata. 

> NAT [6:59 pm]: Just Seamless it
> 
> NAT [7:03 PM]: Besides
> 
> NAT [7:05 PM]: You know this wouldn’t be a problem if you finally let me set you up with a nice, capable boyfriend)))

Steve, somehow, resists the urge to throw his phone across the room. 

“Ugh. Fuck you, Nat,” Steve says, to no one in particular. It’s not a good evening, as far as mediocre evenings go. He’s frustrated, nutritionally deprived, and thirsty. Thirsty, Steve thinks, in all possible permutations of the word. As he finishes up his mac and cheese, Steve swipes a familiar path on his phone, and taps on a familiar navy-blue icon adorned with an unassuming white wing logo: the app for COMMANDO, Steve’s gay “dating” app of choice. 

And immediately, staring back at him, blue eyes piercing and abs peeking out from a thin, white ringer tee, is 106. Location: _102 feet away._

“Oh, fuck,” Steve whispers, sitting up very, very quickly. Almost as quick as he moves, a plan begins to form in Steve’s head. It’s not a very good plan. The likelihood of it getting off the ground, he notes, is marginal, at best.

But. _But._

If it works, he’ll have solved two of his most pressing problems at once.

With more self-doubt than even he’s used to, with even more anxiety than what usually comes with writing most _you up?_ messages, Steve taps out a quick, one-word message: simple enough to back out of, but serious. This, he knows, he can’t undo.

> ME: Hello.
> 
> JB: Oh shit 105
> 
> JB: Hey!!!

A series of smiley faces follow, more excited and friendly than it is sly and sexy. For a moment, Steve’s stomach drops. Maybe this long shot was even longer than he thought it was to begin with.

Couldn’t know for sure until he tired. 

> ME: I have a proposition for you.
> 
> JB: Shoot

For a moment, Steve wonders just how he ended up there, sitting on his couch, a half-eaten tray of shitty mac and cheese in his lap, on a gay hookup app, about to proposition a man he _barely_ knows in exchange for horchata. But of all the things Steve wonders, backing down isn’t one of them. Mama Rogers ain’t raise no quitter, after all.

> ME: I’m currently eating macaroni and cheese and I want something to drink but my friend drank my horchata and so all I have in my apartment right now is orange soda left over from a Halloween party and I do not want to drink that.
> 
> ME: SO…
> 
> ME: If you go down to the bodega and get me a horchata,
> 
> ME: And bring it to my apartment,
> 
> ME: I’ll blow you.

For a while, 106 doesn’t respond. For while after that still, he takes his time crafting a response, the bouncing ellipses appearing, disappearing, and re-appearing about three times. Just as Steve is about to present 106 with an ultimatum, with a _come on, man, my dinner’s getting cold,_ a simple, two-word response pops up, betraying the long few minutes that Steve was waiting for a response, stewing in his own anxiety. 

> JB: Yeah, ok

Steve blinks. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t a simple _yeah._

“Okay?” Steve says aloud, as he sends JB the same in their chat. Just to _really_ confirm. 

> JB: Ok
> 
> ME: Okay. Cool.
> 
> JB: See you in fifteen ;)

**\---**

106—or, JB, as his profile name states—takes fifteen minutes _exactly._ Not that Steve was watching the clock, or anything.

Looking equal parts sheepish and sexy, 106 stands at Steve’s door, broad shoulder slumped in an adorable, _aww, shucks_ sort of way. 

“Hey,” Steve says, making no effort to hide how he’s eyeing him. He motions for 106—JB, he has a name, it’s JB—to make his way inside. JB does. He’s in his apartment. For a blowjob. Steve swallows, hard. 

“Hey,” says JB, his big, blue eyes locked with Steve’s. It’s a little intense. Steve can’t help it if he feels a little bit of a blush forming. “I, uh. I got your horchata.”

Steve takes it from him, quickly looking it over, but only really in a perfunctory way. “Great. Thanks.”

JB nods. A moment passes, and standing in front of Steve, standing there in his apartment, with that _promise_ heavy in the air between them, he shifts, awkwardly. Nervously. How someone so big and beautiful and _soft_ could be so nervous, Steve has no idea. Not that he’s complaining. If anything, it makes JB even _more_ charming than ever.

“So, how do you wanna do this?” Steve asks, getting straight to the point. “I’m happy to do it right here, you’re also welcome to sit on my couch, _hell,_ you could even sit on my kitchen counter, if you want—”

“Shit. Should I—should I have taken my shoes off?” JB asks, suddenly.

Steve blinks, and he can’t help but break into a kind, lovestruck little grin. “Uh—if you want?” 

“Sorry, I—” JB starts, working on unlacing his boots. Steve never noticed this before—or maybe he had, but he’d forgotten—but JB’s left hand is metal, a prosthetic. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Sorry?” Steve asks. Says, more like. JB stands up again, now shoeless, his dinosaur-print socks stark against Steve’s plain wood floors. God, is JB so full of wonderful surprises. 

“No, I mean—” JB says, “I, uh. I just joined COMMANDO yesterday. I’ve, uh. I’ve never hooked up like this. I mean—I’ve been with guys before, but I haven’t dated in a couple years, and so—yeah. This is—this is a first for me.” 

A hopeless romantic. Steve could work with that. Steve _could definitely work with that._

“It’s alright,” Steve murmurs, closing the distance between JB and himself, rolling his hips against JB’s—gently, ever-gently, with just enough friction to get them both going—as he does so. “I’ll take good care of you.”

Dropping down to his knees, Steve doesn’t break eye contact with JB, letting his fingers drift along JB’s inner thighs, his touch feather-light but enough. Just enough. Steve licks his lips, almost on instinct, as he slowly, slowly begins unbuckling JB’s belt, heat already pooling in his stomach, at his very edges. As if unsure, JB, too, slowly moves to make contact, moves to _touch,_ his fingers just _barely_ grazing Steve’s cheek.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice quiet, low.

“Yeah,” Steve says, popping JB’s fly, swallowing as he does. “Yeah. I like it when guys touch me when I’m blowing ‘em.”

JB nods, and he runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, gently, tenderly. He runs his thumb along Steve’s jaw, trailing it all the way to Steve’s lower lip, his touch just as light, just as careful. Through long eyelashes and blown pupils, Steve keeps his eyes trained on JB’s, taking his thumb in his mouth and slowly, slowly sucking it off, earning a wonderful, low little noise from JB that nudges Steve, urges Steve, to move, to keep going, to _take him, all of him._

Underneath JB’s unwavering gaze, Steve moves, hooking his thumbs underneath those tight black boxer briefs, pulling them down just enough to free JB’s big, already-hard cock.

“ _Oh,_ ” Steve breathes as he considers JB’s cock, just as big and beautiful as the man attached to it. It nearly makes Steve want to cry, looking at it. “Hey, big guy.”

Shooting up a grin at JB, Steve moves quickly from there, taking the JB’s tip in his mouth and moving slowly, slowly, pulling off with a slick _pop._ That earns a low groan from JB, the best kind of affirmation that Steve could have ever received. With it, Steve goes in once more, moving slowly—first, licking a stripe down from head to tip, then taking JB in his mouth again, not taking him all, not yet, but enough to earn more of those low, breathy moans.

Eventually, Steve takes JB in his mouth—fully in his mouth—and he begins to move, bobbing his head and taking JB in his mouth deeper and deeper, _more and more._

“ _Fuck_ ,” JB groans, threading his fingers through Steve’s hair and gripping, just _so._ It’s not enough to hurt, not enough to hit Steve in the way that he wants, not enough to hit Steve to fulfill that white-hot, messy, growing _need,_ but it’s something. It’s a start. That desperately-needed touch is all the cue Steve needs to shift his rhythm, taking JB in all that much more. Rutting his own cock—hard, so, so painfully hard—against his fly, Steve only manages so long before he has to touch himself, shakily, desperately, freeing his cock as he takes JB down, down, down, all the way down to his base. 

That seems to do something for JB, and against Steve’s hot, desperate mouth, he shifts, anchoring one hand on Steve’s jaw, and gripping Steve’s hair—rough, just _rough_ enough—with the other. As Steve moves to work himself off, his hand familiar and desperately welcome against his hyper-sensitive, aching cock, JB begins to move against Steve’s mouth, thrusting his hips—rough, erratic, and _so, so good._

“Fuck,” JB moans, once more, his big, big cock filling Steve’s throat like that’s what it was built for, “ _Fuck, baby, your mouth’s so good._ ”

Steve hums a desperate little hum against JB’s huge, huge cock, and that, _that_ sends him off, and his thrusts become quicker, rougher, and absolutely goddamn _fantastic._ As JB fucks his throat, bound to leave Steve hoarse and his whole body feeling raw, Steve desperately fucks his hand, trying, struggling, to keep up with JB’s rhythm as he careens closer and closer towards that ever-desperate release.

“ _Fuck, fuck, fuck—_ ” JB murmurs, voice settled low in his throat, and before Steve knows it, he’s gone, coming hot and sticky and _raw_ against Steve’s throat. He rolls his hips against Steve’s mouth a couple more times, and all of a sudden, Steve is coming, too, falling into that sweet goddamn _rush_ of being completely, totally _gone._ As he swallows JB’s load, his own load a sticky mess in his hand, Steve can swear for the first time that he actually, hand-to-God, _sees stars._

“Fuck, JB,” Steve murmurs eventually, once he’s caught his breath, once he’s put himself together enough to fumble for a paper towel, rather than wiping his hand on his nice, cable-knit sweater. He couldn’t ruin _another_ one of those. When Steve finally speaks, he’s hoarse as he’s ever been. It does things to him. “That was—that was good. That was real, _real_ good.”

“Bucky,” breathes JB, bashful as ever. “My name is Bucky.”

Coming from any other hookup, Steve might have said something funny and flirty and just on the outer edge of mean. But for 106—for JB, for _Bucky_ —Steve can’t help but get a little bit soft, a little bit intimate, with the guy. 

“Hey, I, uh. So, this isn’t how it usually goes,” Steve says, quiet, his throat still feeling a little raw. “But would you—would you like to stay for dinner?”

Bucky considers Steve, the wave of emotions he’s struggling through hardly hidden behind those big, expressive blue eyes. Eventually, he nods, looking a little bit teary, even, as he does so.

“Yeah,” says Bucky. As if there were any question of it. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

And Steve does, too.

**\---**

Steve receives a text from Natasha at eight the next morning. Tucked against Bucky’s chest, he decides to respond to it later.

Four minutes later, the entire apartment startles awake, a long, unbroken buzz, Steve’s doorbell, indicating an uninvited presence at his front door. With a whine that’s absolutely unbecoming of a man his age, Steve shifts, trying to muster enough energy to leave the wonderful, comfortable little spot he’s currently in. 

“No, no, I’ve got it,” Bucky groans, before stumbling into the hallway with an _incredible_ case of bedhead. There were a lot of wonderful, perfect, charming things that Steve knew about Bucky, and probably a whole lot more wonderful, perfect, charming things that he would come to learn, but in that moment, getting the door _instantly_ shot up to top three, minimum.

For a moment, Steve revels in the incredible comfort of his bed, one that, albeit, is feeling a little bit empty without Bucky by his side. _Already._ He doesn’t even think about checking his phone. Not while Bucky gets the door, and especially not when Bucky gets back. 

“Who was that?” Steve asks, drinking in the broad planes of Bucky’s bare chest, the shift of his bicep as he closes the door, the swell of his thick thighs and his big, big cock in those teeny little boxer-briefs. 

“One of your friends,” Bucky says, and he sets down a familiar styrofoam cup. Horchata from the bodega. Somehow, Steve had completely forgotten that she’d stolen horchata from under his nose. “She dropped this off for you.”

“Oh, Nat,” Steve says, rubbing his eyes, “Well. That was nice of her.”

“She also had a message she wanted me to give you,” Bucky says, still sounding a little sleep-bleary.

“Yeah?”

Bucky nods. “She said, _Good job, Rogers_. And that she’s glad you finally decided to listen to her.”

Steve grins. “Yeah. Yeah, well. Hopefully this means she’ll stop stealing my horchata now.”

Probably not. But the man in his bed—a man who is no longer _just_ the man across the hall—is much, much better than bodega horchata, by a _mile._ By two years. By a hundred and two feet.

**Author's Note:**

> i meant to have this done by the end of the day on thursday (american thanksgiving, as it so happens) but unfortunately, i've been experiencing major mental block when it comes to writing lately. but!! i got it done, and that's all that matters. 
> 
> a few things:
> 
> \- this fic, of course, is inspired by [this possibly-cursed grindr message](https://twitter.com/mightbecursed/status/1199408468022530048?s=19) that made the rounds on twitter a couple days ago.  
> \- this fic is also unbeta'd, so minor grammatical mistakes and some continuity errors may abound. if there's anything particularly egregious, please don't hesitate to point it out!!  
> \- as em pointed out, this fic is basically the spiritual twin to her ["Hey Dude, I Need Your Pants"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18430955), which is VERY GOOD and i very much suggest you read, one time or another.   
> \- i love horchata. and so, steve also loves horchata. one time i got so excited about horchata that i accidentally squeezed it too hard and it exploded all over my friend's car. we panicked in the moment, since it was a leased car, and he still makes fun of me whenever we go to get tacos together, but we laugh about it.  
> \- because steve loves horchata, i switched it from 7/11 horchata to bodega horchata, neither of which i've never actually encountered, but i don't like the idea of big batch/commercial horchata. only the good stuff for this boy.  
> \- i have not seen KNIVES OUT yet but steve is wearing a sweater in it because the entire TL is obsessed with chris evans in that sweater right now. it doesn't matter in this fic, not really, but regardless: here it is.  
> \- hopefully this doesn't get me in trouble with ao3, but: if you enjoyed this fic and you are financially-capable, please consider donating to [north american traditional food systems (NATIFS)](https://www.natifs.org/), [radical indigenous survivance and empowerment (RISE)](https://www.facebook.com/RISEIndigenous/), and [oates](https://www.instagram.com/ndn.o/). also consider supporting [decolonize this place](https://www.decolonizethisplace.org/), in action and in deed. these organizations are doing the crucial work of decolonization and community care, and financial support is one of many ways to show solidarity in their ongoing resistance against settler colonialism. 
> 
> i hope all your feast days in the next month, as the decade comes to a close, are full of warmth, care, and joy, everyone.


End file.
